Pol.
Do you know me, my lord?

Ham.
Excellent well; you're a fishmonger.

Pol.
Not I, my lord.

Ham.
Then I would you were so honest a man.

Pol.
Honest, my lord!

Ham.
Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man
picked out of ten thousand.

Pol.
That's very true, my lord.

Ham.
For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god-kissing
carrion,--Have you a daughter?

Pol.
I have, my lord.

Ham.